


meditation

by psychedelia



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Werewolf, werewolf Daisy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:34:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24148252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychedelia/pseuds/psychedelia
Summary: Daisy is a mix of violence, and rage, and hunting, and blood, and everything in between, but sometimes, sometimes she's just a wolf.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	meditation

Even if everyone else in the office didn’t meticulously keep a ‘full moon’ schedule on their desks now, little pen marks circles around new moons and full moons and half moons on office calendars, everyone would still  _ know _ when it was going to be soon.

It’s not like she can help it; grouchy, moody, little growls in her voice that are there far, far less when the night isn’t so close. That isn’t to say she  _ never _ grows, because, well, as Jon says, lies are unbecoming. And as  _ Daisy _ says, so is pretension Jon, watch that tone before I bite it off. 

None of them expected  _ this _ to be a side effect of the Hunt, but maybe the Buried complicated things. Something something earth to the blood. Or maybe it’s just unique. Or maybe this  _ is _ what Hunters become, eventually, provided enough incubation. Better than a damn vampire, that’s for sure. 

Jon is making a statement. The soft whirr of the recorder is a balm to Daisy’s senses, now. While once it annoyed her, the greeting of a dozen, two dozen, upon her first waking moment out of the Coffin has placated her senses, and she finds herself tightly wrapped around her own body, turned fully and dozing in the corner of the room. 

She’d long ago quit asking Jon for permission; as the downcast melancholy of the coffin faded, so too did her incessant need to  _ ask _ , especially to a man who so clearly was fine with the monstrous needs of everyone but himself. Selfish, hypocritical prick that he is, Daisy finds herself comforted around his presence, the lull of his impassioned, horrified voice an oxymoronic lullaby. 

Basira is the only other person she willingly lets see her like this. Between the two of them, Basira and Jon, Daisy gets enough comfort in this form than she imagines most people with her… ahem. Condition. Get. At least, without going completely feral and retreating to the woods to regress permanantely into some beastial predator. 

She’s bigger than a wolf, and they’d needed to shuffle furniture in Jon’s office to make room for her ‘nest.’ (Martin’s words, really, and she’d nearly flown at him in offended rage until Basira had pressed a solid hand to her shoulder until she calmed down, and when she’d looked back, Martin had been gone.)

Everything is bound to go to shit eventually. They all know it; the apocalypses are ramping up, the creatures that hunt them in turn are making more and more appearances, and the fragile sense of stability they have weakens by the day. But there’s still days in the office like this, where they’ve found some strange level of comfort in their oddness. 

Jon finishes his statement, eventually, and clicks the recorder off, and Daisy sprawls out over the floor to look at him with her head pressed against the old floorboards. She’s still  _ herself _ , full turned, but she’s closer to instincts, closer to the wolf inside, and human vocal cords are nonexistent like this. Her tail swishes across the floor lazily, head cocking as Jon starts tossing manila folder in a semi-circle around the office. 

“Need to sort through, see what calls to me,” He says, by way of explanation, and he spares her a quick look, a smile filtering through his severe features when he sees she’s belly-up. 

It’s easier, in the lead up, and on the day of, the full moon, to be like this. Less aggressive, ironically, than trying to keep up a human persona. And in this form, her need to  _ protect _ drowns out her need to hunt, kill, maim, spill blood. Jon and Basira, and the others, sure, too, are to be  _ protected _ . 

Jon begins to sort; cigarette smoke curls up above him as he sits criss-crossed on the floor, his eyes half-closed as he  _ feels _ for statements that have power. Daisy has stopped pretending to understand him, even when she has a more logical person brain about her. Now? In this state? She finds herself pulling herself onto her feet and coming to curl up next to his side, earning her an annoyed huff when she pushes some of the statements back with her paw on accident. 

“Oh, if Basira could see you now…” Jon mumbles, and he doesn’t look at her, but Daisy knows he doesn’t need to. That’s the strange thing with Jon, and her. Somehow, even in their utter lack of traditional socialization, in their mindlessness clouded with fear and pain and anger, they communicate better, she’s certain, than anyone else here. What an odd thing to consider. So she doesn’t, and just presses her chin up on Jon’s knee, and filters her eyes closed. 

He meditates to find fear; Daisy meditates to escape it. The smell of tobacco and Jon and the old, ancient, fear-soaked floors of the archival office lull her to sleep, and for now, all is well.

**Author's Note:**

> This was for my good friend [Wildersage](https://wildersage.tumblr.com). : ) Enjoy!
> 
> You can find me at [whitmanic](https://whitmanic.tumblr.com)!


End file.
